


A Child's Wish (Changes #2)

by Wolfstar4evr



Series: Supernatural Oneshots [32]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying John Winchester, Crying Sam Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional John, Emotional Sam, Good Parent John Winchester, Grieving John Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Nervous Sam Winchester, Part Two, Pre-Series, Reassuring John, Trying John Winchester, Weechesters, Young Sam Winchester, hard conversations, not proof read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 14:21:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15687156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfstar4evr/pseuds/Wolfstar4evr
Summary: A follow up to my earlier story 'Changes' - you don't have to have read that to really 'get' this but I would recommend it.After his talk with Bobby, John can barely wait to talk to Sam about what was said. He wakes him up early to have a talk, and finds his guilt getting even worse as he realises the things Sam wants most in the world are things that any other child in America would easily take for granted, especially when he finds that one of those things is just to find out what his own mother looks like.





	A Child's Wish (Changes #2)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment with any story ideas or prompts you'd like to see, in this storyline or not.  
> Hope you enjoy!

“Hey kiddo,” John says the next morning, gently shaking his son awake. It’s early, earlier than Sam usually gets up, but John’s been thinking all night and can’t wait anymore to talk to his youngest. The kid is sleeping on his own in the tiny bed in the box room, a tiny room that Bobby usually uses for storage. He exiled himself there after the fight, apparently, while Dean stayed in the guest bedroom.

Sam sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Dad?” He says, looking up him through hazy eyes. “What’s wrong? Are we leaving?”

John sighs; another sign of his failure: because Sam is being woken up he assumed he’s being ripped from his bed and being tossed in the car. “No kiddo,” He says, stroking his youngest’s hair. He then leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head, ignoring his shocked expression. He makes a vow to himself to be more affectionate with both his sons from now on, Sam especially. “I just wanted to talk to you about a conversation I had with Bobby last night.”

Sam looks worried now, biting his lip. “What did he say?”

John shakes his head, rubbing a hand down Sam’s back. “He just told me about the fight, but you’ve got nothing to worry about kiddo. I’m gonna talk to Dean about it later, too.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Sam says quickly, and John wonders if maybe Sam _believes_ what Dean said, that his mom’s death is his fault. He’ll have to address that too. “He was right, I-“

“Dean wasn’t right about anything, Sam,” John says firmly, hating the way his son’s face crumples with guilt, guilt he shouldn’t be feeling. “But I’m not gonna yell at him, I’m pretty sure he’s been punishing himself.” He pauses before continuing. “Bobby told that you don’t know anything about your mom, is that true?”

Sam looks so shocked it’s like a knife to the chest; no kid should be this surprised by the mention of his own mother whether she’s dead or not. Eventually he nods his head, clearly not trusting himself to speak. John can’t help it, he reaches out to brush the hair out of Sam’s eyes so he can see them more clearly. Sam almost pulls away, but John is glad he doesn’t, and he gives him a smile, which even he knows is becoming rarer and rarer.

“What do you wish for, Sammy?” John asks suddenly, furrowing his brow. “What do you think about when you think about your perfect life?”

Sam looks down at the bedspread before answering, picking absently at a loose stitch. Eventually, he has the courage to look up at his father and answer, but it takes a few false starts. “Well, obviously,” He says finally. “I want… Um, Mom, and a house… A home. Not that we don’t have a home!” Sam says quickly, looking up at John with panic. John just sighs; they don’t have a home, not really, not at all, even. An old car or an old man’s house they visit once a year is not a home.

“What about things that you want that we could change now?” John asks, truly interested in his son’s thoughts. “The things you wish for but won’t tell me.”

“Oh,” Sam says, continuously startled by this conversation. “Well, I… well, I know we can’t really change this, but sometimes I wish I could go to the same school for a whole semester. A lot of different states have different curriculums, and by the time I’m enrolled in a new place I’m usually behind. I know that couldn’t happen every semester, but it would be cool if I could go to less than five schools a year?” John feels sick. What normal twelve year old wishes to go to less than _five schools?_ What kind of father is he? He’s never thought of how often they move in terms of how many schools he’s sending his kids to, just thought of how many hunts he gets down during each move. He looks back down as Sam continues. “And… I’d like to do after school clubs sometimes. I wanted to join soccer, and I thought you’d approve because it’s free because it’s a sport and it would contribute to my training, but Dean said no because it wasn’t rigorous enough to miss training for. And, I like reading lore books, and learning the legends and spells and stuff is fun, but sometimes I just want to read a fiction book, you know with unrealistic plots and magic and stuff, even though I know magic is real and not a laughing matter.” He glances up John as he says the last part, clearly keen to show that he has listened to what his father has taught him. John just swallows his nausea and nods for his son to continue, but becomes alarmed when tears begin to swim in Sam’s eyes, the child clearly fearful of what he’s about to say. “And… I’d like to know about Mom. I know it’s not my place to ask but I _would_ like to know what she looked like, and what she was like and… and –“ Sam dissolves into sobs, and John immediately gathers him into his arms.

“Sssshhh,” He hushes into his hair, holding his son tight. His own tears are threatening to spill over as Sam hiccups into his jacket. “Sssshhh, Sammy. It is _absolutely_ you place to ask; she was your mom too. And it is _not_ your fault she died, okay? She loved you so much. She did, I promise. I love you too. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

That just seems to make Sam cry harder, great heaving sobs that have probably been a long time coming. It lasts at least twenty five minutes with John just sitting there rocking his son back and forth, desperately trying to calm him down before he makes himself sick. Eventually, when the sobs have died down but the tears are still coming thick and fast down Sammy’s face, John pulls away slightly so he can looks his son in the eyes, gently brushing his unruly hair away from his wet eyes. “How about finding what your mom looks like now, huh? The rest of the changes we’ll make later, after breakfast.”

Sam immediately pulls out of his arms to sit up, looking at him with wide, excited eyes. “Really?” He gasps, and John smiles through his own tears, happy his son is so excited and also devastated by the reason why. What twelve year old doesn’t even know what their own _mother_ looks like?

Reaching into his back pocket, John pulls out his wallet. From one of the compartments he pulls a picture of him and Mary; staring at it for a moment before handing it to his son, overwhelmed with grief over the fact that Sam has never – and will never – know either of the people in the photo.

Sam’s eyes go wide when he’s handed the photograph, and he holds it like it’s made of glass, right at the very edges. His other hand reaches towards the picture, towards his mom’s face as if he wants to touch but can’t quite bring himself to. “I never thought she’d be blonde,” Is all he says eventually, pulling a chuckle from John. “We all have dark hair.”

John smiles. “Dean was blonde when he little,” He tells his son, smiling when Sam’s wide eyes break away from the photograph for a second to look up at him. “It went dark when he was about five or six. You were obviously too little to remember.”

Sam laughs a little too, staring at the picture for another full minute before sighing and clearly very reluctantly holding it out to John. John just smiles sadly and pushes his hands away. “It’s yours kiddo,” He says, letting out an oof as Sam suddenly wraps two skinny arms around his neck.

“Thank you,” Sam says, right in his ear, and John smiles, wrapping two arms around him in a tight hug back.

“You’re very welcome,” He says, ruffling his son’s hair. “Now, how about some breakfast?”

Sam pulls away and nods with a toothy grin, turning to lean the picture reverently up against the lamp on his tiny bedside table, which looks to be some sort of wooden box rather than a table. They both stand, Sam following close behind his father as they leave the room, his smile only widening as John turns to him and says: “So, soccer huh?”


End file.
